


The Draw

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [26]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Babies, Competition, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kissing, Marriage, Sewing, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichigo and Rukia compete to determine who is the best baby wrangler in Soul Society. Meanwhile, Hisana and Byakuya consider baby names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Draw

"It's a baby, not a beanbag, Rukia." Ichigo's voice, low but pointed, rumbles across the room, stopping its intended dead in her tracks.

Rukia's hands freeze. Her muscles slide under her skin, and her tendons lock in rigid tension. Her fingers bend into claws. This reaction apparently only makes things  _worse._ At least, according to the slope of Ichigo's lips. A slope that is pulling down into a look of brutal skepticism, as if he cannot believe how… _inept …_ she really is in such matters.

"What's that supposed to mean?" And, in an instant, her shaky apprehension morphs into a piercing  _glare_  and a bladed voice.

 _Yeah, what's he trying to imply?_  Her inner street urchin cries inside her head.  _Like he can do better!_

_Oh, wait…._

_Maybe he can._

Doubt gulfs her like a ten foot tidal wave.

_He does have sisters…. Younger. Twin. Sisters._

Geez, what luck! Of course she would have to stab, save, and befriend someone who would be able to play Baby Wrangler better than she can play Baby Wrangler.

 _Gah_ , comes the inward groan,  _I bet he even knows how to do diapers better. Curse my luck!_

"It means," he begins in his take-no-prisoners tenor, "that you aren't very good at—" Ichigo pauses  _dramatically_ , as if finding the right word requires a great wracking of his brain. "Well—" Another bout of dramatic pausing seizes him, and Rukia swears she can hear crickets chirping in the interim. "— _everything_."

Wow. That stung. That stung with the ferocity of a thousand bee stings. Way to let a girl down easy,  _Ichigo_.

All Rukia can do is gape at her  _friend_. Words simply escape her, evaporating right off the tip of her tongue. So, she stands there, flabbergasted and slack-jawed in the midst of the most righteous of indignations.

"I mean, just look at how you're holding the poor kid. Head unsupported, legs flopping. It's an infant, Rukia! An  _infant_! It can't control  _anything_. It is completely at the mercy of  _everyone_." To demonstrate just how deep her ignorance goes, Ichigo gently takes the baby from her arms and  _shows_  her how to properly cradle the boy, propping the child's head against his bicep and supporting the babe in the bend of his arm. "See. Even Renji knows how to do it!"

Rukia's gaze snaps to her friend, as if he has betrayed some sacred vow to her, one that specifically mandates that he must be as bad at nurturing babies as she is. But, he's not. In fact, he seems to be handling the child with the breeziness of a seasoned professional. Damn him and his time at the Eleventh with Yachiru! Of course he knows about children! His old squadron had mandated playdates!

"Hey!" Renji barks. "What's that supposed to mean?  _Even Renji knows how to do it_?" Like it's some sort of  _insult_.

"It's just," Ichigo shrugs as he hands the infant back to Rukia. "You don't seem like a kid-friendly type of guy."

Renji takes great umbrage at this. "Then, what type of guy do I look like?"

"I dunno," Ichigo scoffs. "Like a thug."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Rukia quickly sidesteps between the two men. "Baby! Baby! Baby!" she snaps the word out in quick procession to  _remind_  Renji that he shouldn't do anything rash with one of the heirs in his arms.

Renji stops short and  _glares_  at Ichigo. "Next time, kid." It is a threat, through and through.

"Hey," Ichigo murmurs, lifting his hands, palm-side up, "it wasn't an insult." It's not like he hasn't been bullied a time or  _twenty_  because kids thought he looked like a thug. He takes it as almost a badge of honor at this point.

Rukia turns her head slightly to the side and spies Uryū Ishida in an over-the-shoulder glance. "How are the garments coming along, Ishida?"

The bespectacled boy lifts his head, and, as he does so, the lenses of his glasses catch the florescent overhead lighting. A white glare obscures his eyes as he addresses Rukia. "Just a few more moments, Miss Kuchiki." His voice is calm, even, and, more importantly, reassuring. She trusts he has this task under control, and, by the looks of the frilly white fabric pooling in his lap, the infants' outfits appear almost complete.

"Sister will be so pleased," Rukia notes before nodding her head in gratitude.

"I could think of no better way to repay your family's hospitality."

Sitting beside Ishida, Orihime snips a loose thread for her fellow handicraft club member. "Yeah, Miss Kuchiki, your siblings have been so kind," she murmurs, sparing her gaze for a quick second.

A burn turns Rukia's face an unflattering shade of red, as if a close, embarrassing secret has been shared with the world at large. "Yeah," she says in a bright, radiant voice.

_Forget the fact that Brother never actually consented to any of this…._

But, surely, Brother must  _know_  by now. He does possess a substantial amount of reiatsu and spiritual power. He must've sensed the  _welcoming committee_  a few furlongs away. If he  _really, truly_  objected to this, he would've sent them packing without a second thought. Brother isn't the type to hold back—albeit his displeasure usually manifests in civil discourse or  _guards_  ordered to do his bidding—and Brother  _definitely_  isn't the type to mince words. Nope. The fact that they are all still gathered to celebrate the twins' name day is  _practically_  tacit agreement.

She hopes.

No.

She  _prays_.

Sister wouldn't allow Brother to turn them away. Rukia clings to this thought. She doesn't deny it's broken, beat-down logic. But, hey, it's all she's got.

Swallowing her apprehension, Rukia dons the mantle of a confident Kuchiki princess and brushes aside her myriad concerns.

Ichigo turns to Orihime. "Hey, Inoue, would you like to hold one of the babies?"

To which Orihime responds in a flustered blur of headshaking and arm flailing. "Oh, no, no, no," she says, frantic. Holding her hands up in front of her defensively, she gives another shake of her head. "I'm afraid I'll break him."

Ichigo and Renji exchange incredulous stares. "What is wrong with the women around here?" Ichigo's utter disbelief is apparent.

"What's that s'pposed to mean?" Rukia growls. "You question our feminine mystique?"

"I'm doing a  _lot_  of questioning." To emphasize his amazement, Ichigo nods his head. It is a slow, disapproving nod. "I won't deny it. A lot of questions are flying through my head right now." His  _slow_ ,  _condescending_ nods quickly morph into a  _slow, condescending_  head-shaking.

"C'mon, Inoue!" Rukia grabs the girl up by the arm and pulls her to her feet. "We're gonna show these  _boys_!"

"We are?" Wide-eyed confusion paints Orihime's cheerful façade as her gaze shifts from Rukia to Ichigo then back again. "Um," she begins, bending her head toward Rukia. "If you don't mind my asking, Miss Kuchiki, what,  _exactly_ , are we going to show the boys?"

Rukia shakes her head and fixes Ichigo with a devious stare. "A challenge." Her voice ushers in a sense of goal-driven  _purpose_ , one that Ichigo immediately accepts without even knowing what said  _challenge_  entails.

Folding his arms in front of his chest, Ichigo lifts his head, his jaw hardens, and his gaze is set.  _Proceed_ , his expression practically  _begs_  of her.

"Two babies. Two teams. Whoever can dress their baby in his naming gown appropriately and  _first_  wins." Rukia's eyes narrow, and she pulls her chin to her neck.

"Sado will to be the judge." Ichigo puffs out his chest and gives Rukia a heated onceover.

"Doesn't matter." She jerks her chin to the left and makes a sharp tsk-tsk sound with her tongue. "We girls are going to  _smoke_  you."

"Ha!" Ichigo forces a hearty chuckle up his throat. " _You_  against  _us_? I'm practically an  _expert_ , and Renji has—" he strains for a moment, searching for an appropriate word, "— _natural_ talent. You two are  _doomed_."

Orihime looks particularly panicked, unsure of  _when_ , exactly, this all went off the rails. "Ugh?" she interjects, but, before she can weave together a particularly compelling protest, Rukia has her by the arm and is ushering her toward the "competition."

* * *

Quietly, Hisana crosses the floor. Her socked feet do not make a sound as she pads toward her very still, very focused husband.

Byakuya sits with back ramrod straight. His shoulders are level. He tilts his head forward, and his brows furrow. He is the perfect portrait of how a master calligrapher sits stationed at his desk. Caught between her husband's slender fingers is a goat's hair calligraphy brush. A deep shade of black stains the bristles, and she watches, hypnotized at the sight of her husband's expert strokes.

He does not acknowledge her as he continues. Maybe he isn't even aware of her presence. He does seem particularly  _consumed_  by the task at hand—a task that has siphoned  _hours_  of his time—and to think, she muses, that morning he was so  _serene_. Now? The serenity has bled away, and he labors as if this is the most engrossing endeavor that he has ever had the pleasure of completing.

"You know," she murmurs, breath soft and sweet against the shell of his ear, "the last forty renditions were exquisite." With a gentle touch, she gathers the fall of his hair loosely in her hand and rakes her fingers through his tangled locks.

" _Exquisite_  is not  _perfection_."

Ah, he's searching for perfection. Well, they are going to be there for a while, then, because he's bent on finding fault with beauty.

He's perseverating, she thinks. His first attempt was good enough to hang in a gallery. But, that doesn't matter. Nerves have bested his better judgment. It's the only explanation that she can think of.

 _A nervous Lord Byakuya_.

The thought proves too delightful, and she submits to the smile that burns at her lips.

She has seen her husband's nerves before, and, while rare, she never forgets to drink in the sight. If  _he_  can be nervous, then, damn, so can she or anyone else for that matter!

But, right then, she isn't nervous. Not in the slightest. She is the perfect picture of  _calm_. Despite the tumult of the recent defections, all she can think of is celebrating this moment with her family. No one will deny her this pleasure. They can piece together the fabric of Soul Society tomorrow.

"Are you certain?" His cryptic question is followed by an equally cryptic sidelong glance.

Come again? Is she certain? Certain about what?

Then, suddenly, it hits her like a wrecking ball to the face.  _The names_ …. So, that's what absorbs him: He's afraid that his selection will be ridiculed.

Hisana buries a chuckle in a mountain of pink silk. That won't do! she tells herself. No. As much as her chest squeezes her breath in anticipation of riotous laughter, she just can't. It would be improper. It would be unladylike.  _It would be cruel_.

And, there is no need to be cruel.

She trusts her husband not to abuse this power. He won't name their children something  _ridiculous_ , like "Apple," or "Banana." Right?

 _Right_?

Reflexively, her gaze falls to the piles of discarded paper. It is a veritable mass graveyard of calligraphy and  _names_. There must be at least fifty different unique names scattered across the desk.

"Of course, milord," comes her  _belated_  response. Even she cringes when she hears her voice echo in her head.  _Not quick enough_.

Byakuya quirks a brow at this and frowns. Her pause was too long, and he judged her hesitant.

 _Never misses a thing, that one_.

"If you would—" he begins, but she is swift to interject.

Hisana gives a small chuckle, and she swats away the insinuation. He doesn't need to trouble himself to complete his inquiry. The answer is a firm, "No!" No, she will not dash what little remains of her husband's resolve in this matter.

"No, milord. We struck this accord, after all. I bear the responsibility of birthing the children, and you bear the responsibility of naming them." Sounds  _fair_. Her indelible mark deserves another.

Byakuya tucks his chin down and sighs. He's not even attempting to hide his dissatisfaction. "Very well." There is a heavy sense of dread and resignation building in his voice and spilling from his affect. His hand goes still, and his frown only deepens. There is no talking his way out of this—a fact he's only recently discerned.

Words, unspoken, blanket the room. They ricochet off the walls, noisy and listless. Yet, despite her husband's aggressive silence, Hisana can hear his sentiments all the same:  _What if they hate their names?_

_They will._

She doesn't tell him this secret, if it can even be called that.

 _They will hate their names in the same way everyone comes to hate the sound of his or her own name. It is inevitable_.

And, in a way, she imagines this, too, is only fair. There will be days when the boys will hate their names just as there will be days the boys will wish fate had spared them from the living. These wishes—of names and of regret—will be fleeting, and, hopefully, of little consequence. But, it is one of the many burdens of being a parent.

Hisana offers her husband a reassuring smile. It is genuine, but it does not assuage his brittle anxieties. No. He is still struggling, still on the cusp of girding his nerves. "I trust your impeccable judgment, Lord Byakuya."

He nods his head, and he draws a long breath.

Seconds pass, pregnant with meaning.

He is rallying his spirit. She can feel it. The temperature in the room rises. The air becomes lighter, easier to breathe. There is hope, hope to accomplish a singular objective.

Soothingly, she rubs lazy circles against his back with the tips of her fingers. Her touch is light, but he responds. His muscles, once as taught as steel cable cords, slowly begin to relax. She feels their release, fiber by stubborn fiber, until his shoulders slope at a natural incline.

Reflexively, he turns to her, and she catches a glimpse of the man she has come to know and love so well. An intense look is lodged in those gray eyes, setting his gaze aflame. Resolution, once in short supply, rises in his stare. He stays Hisana with a squeeze of her hand.

Her smile broadens, and she rests her small palm against the expanse of his back.

Silently, she looks on as he writes their sons' names on the birth certificates. Not once does her smile falter. Not once does his hand hesitate. Indeed, with each brush stroke, her heart swells until she is overjoyed at the sight of the thick, expertly penned characters. Byakuya's work is equal parts loving and lovely.

_It is perfection._

Unable to keep her happiness to herself, she reaches up and presses a kiss to his cheek. Words simply cannot describe her immense pleasure. Only actions will suffice, and, even then, she is not sure she has adequately captured the extent of her appreciation.

Placing the brush on its rest, Byakuya turns to her. Lowering his head, he stares searchingly into her eyes. It takes him a moment to read her expression. Fear has stripped him of his confidence, laying him bare and grasping for words.

"Thank you, milord," she says, gaze falling to the certificates.

Her elation only increases as she reads the names.

_Hakudoshi._

_Shirofumi._

* * *

"Looks bad." Yasutora's deep baritone says it all, and Uryū is quick to chime in with a slow shake of his head.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the young Quincy exhales a small sigh. "Indeed."

Neither Ichigo nor Rukia can dispute the adjudication, even though they reach for words as if they are weapons. But, nope. It is no use arguing with good judgment.

As Yasutora so eloquently put it: Their work looks  _bad_. And "bad" might be too charitable a description.

Renji and Orihime stand with their heads hung low and eyes rooted to the floor. They barely had a chance to speak reason during the "competition." Both Ichigo and Rukia were so  _adamant_  about conquering one another that all Renji or Orihime could do was watch in abject horror. White, frilly, lacy  _horror_.

"Looks bad," Renji concurs, face souring at the sight of the children.

"Yep." Orihime's quietly agrees.

A mountain of expensive, white cloth  _buries_  the babies. The boys, however, are surprisingly undisturbed and slumbering. They likely never even noticed the row that ceased only moments ago, which is a  _good thing_. No need to sound the alarm before Ichigo and Rukia can  _fix this mess_. And what a fine mess it is!

Just as Rukia is about to say… _something_ …a door draws back. Its scratchy wooden sound stills her tongue. Her heart slams to a thudding halt, squeezing her breath out of her in the process. And, there she stands, dumbfounded and with an expression of immense guilt plastered across her face.

In a second, the entire room seemingly tilts toward the source of the sound. All eyes stare into the corridor, and not a word is ventured. Nope. The room goes deathly quiet.

"Sister! Brother!" Rukia's intended excitement twists and turns into a strangled plea. She bows low and prays the fall of her hair veils her shame. Her red cheeked shame.

Sister enters the room before Brother, cloaked in a pale pink haori and white kimono. Her raven hair, pulled back in a jade hair ornament at the nape of her neck, shimmers under the lantern light. Hisana acknowledges Rukia and her sister's friends with a demure glance and shy smile. Standing perfectly poised and impeccably groomed in her silks, she stops in the middle of the floor and allows her gaze to wander the room.

Sister hides her illness well, Rukia observes. While not as intensely felt, remnants of Sister's previous affliction continue to manifest. Her complexion is two shades too pale, and her eyes, normally so fiery and full of mischief, are weak. Yet, despite Sister's slow recovery, she appears as steady and serene as her rank demands of her.

Brother stands barely a meter behind her, donning pale mint-colored silks. He judges all in the room in a single sweeping glance, and he appears slightly irritated by the sight of  _drifters_. Before he can find his children, Sister is already redressing the tangle of infant and linen.

Rukia gives a small sigh of relief. At least they won't be eviscerated today.

Byakuya's attention fleetingly travels from his wife to his sister before returning to the  _drifters_. His lips slope into a frown, and his visage hardens. An arctic blast of air blankets the room, setting the mood, and that mood is decidedly  _unpleasant_.

Just as Rukia suspected, Brother is not pleased.

_At least he didn't notice the babies. Thanks be to the Gods!_

By the time Byakuya turns to his sons, Hisana has quietly rearranged the garments and is soothing the twins with gentle touches and kind smiles. Once the boys are settled, she turns to her guests, and, like a summer breeze, she wafts back to her husband. Warmth clings to her, from her expression of contentedness to the gleam that catches in her eyes.

"What lovely garments for the boys," she observes, keen eyes lifting to the strangers gathered in the room.

Sister knows the dressing gown does not belong to the time and realm of Soul Society. The fabric, stitching, and cut of the boys' clothing are  _different_ ,  _otherworldly_. In this assumption, Sister is correct, but, before Rukia can confirm Hisana's unspoken thoughts, Hisana's gaze flits to Uryū. He is the obvious choice, seated on the floor with a sewing kit at his knee.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kuchiki." The Quincy gives a respectful nod of the head.

"The seams and sewing are excellent. You will have to show me your secrets," Hisana pauses. It is a meaningful pause, one that seemingly requests a response, and Uryū is swift of mind to reply.

"Uryū Ishida."

An approving smile curves Sister's lips up. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ishida."

Byakuya frowns. He doesn't want to learn the boy's name. In fact, Rukia very much suspects that Brother does not want  _them_  to be there at all. Renji's presence is pushing it. But, Ichigo, Sado, Inoue,  _and_  Ishida? Brother is merely biding his time before he sends them on their way, and that way is back to the World of the Living.

Rukia cringes, breath running cold in her throat as she waits for Brother to speak. At the moment, he appears impassive. And cold. Mostly, cold, she thinks. Like an iceberg. Or an avalanche.

Sister, however, breaks the momentary silence that has fallen. "It would be my greatest pleasure to invite you to dinner."

Rukia's chest clenches, knocking the air clean out of her lungs.  _What?_  Her mind remains trapped on the question like a rabbit gets trapped in a briar patch. Indeed, her thoughts prove thorny, cutting her with  _possibilities_.

_What is Sister thinking? Brother will surely object!_

Reflexively, Rukia's gaze flickers to Brother, whose expression blackens. She has to give it to him, though. He maintains the façade of noble stoicism well. It isn't apparent to most, but Rukia can see his lines straighten and pull into a look of disapproval.

Before he can protest, Hisana intervenes, ever prepared to counter her husband's irascible temperament. "Please oblige my request. It is the least I can do. Anyone who is prepared to risk it all to preserve my family is an ally to the House of Kuchiki." Sweetly, she lowers her head.

Byakuya's jaw clenches, but he does not air a word to the contrary. He merely submits with a soft sigh, and his gaze falls to the floor. Likely, he did not envision spending his sons' name day in the company of  _humans_. But, for Hisana, he will acquiesce, albeit begrudgingly.

Rukia feels a pang of empathy for her dear brother. Byakuya is a rigid soul, whose expectations are quick to become law. He doesn't  _do_ flexible well, especially where it concerns  _tradition_.

Rukia offers Byakuya a small sympathetic glance. She, after all, feels responsible for this  _disappointment_. Eying the scroll rolled in his hand, Rukia remembers the day's purpose, and she jumps at the prospect to divert Brother's thoughts. "What names, Brother?"

Without a word or a moment's hesitation, he proffers the certificates to Rukia, who is overjoyed at the reception. Eager fingers unfurl the thick, textured paper, and she consumes the lovely calligraphy.

 _Brother's handwriting_ , she thinks to herself, blithely. The lettering is so beautiful, inspiring almost. Then, she takes in the names. A smile stretches across her lips. No longer will the twins be Little One Number 1 and Little One Number 2. Instead, they will be Hakudoshi and Shirofumi.

Before Rukia can express her joy, the slamming of doors seals her lips.

With baited breath, everyone turns to the sounds of wooden clacking and heavy footfalls. Something has gone awry. What, exactly? Rukia is tearing through her mental catalogue to figure it out. Everyone is where they should be. The twins, Brother, Sister, Renji, Ichigo, Inoue, Ishida, and Sado are right there, alive and well.

_Has something happened in Seireitei?_

The Shihōin estate, like Kuchiki Manor, is set quite a distance from the city. The sounds of horror and great mischief would not reach the esteemed houses. News of insurrection or hostility would be sent by couriers or hell butterflies.

_Did the defectors return? Have they sent an army? Have the units uncovered more treachery?_

The deluge of concerns hounding Rukia's brain morphs into a heavy static humming when she sees the stricken face of a Shihōin maid. The girl is no older than Rukia, small, and her complexion is a ghastly pallor. Clenched in her curled fingers is a missive. She clasps the sealed letter so tightly that creases are beginning to mark the white envelope.

"Lord and Lady Kuchiki," she says, trying her level best to tame her anxiety.

Out of an abundance of respect, she drops to the floor. Her knees slap against the hardwood, and she folds over herself. "Please, forgive my intrusion," she begins, too timid to meet either Brother's or Sister's gaze, "but the matter is quite dire, Lord Kuchiki." Trembling like a leaf, she stretches up to give him the missive. "The Second, milord. It requires your attention."

Rukia lifts her head, and her spine straightens. If Brother's attention is required for an official matter, then so is hers, as she is now, formally, the Vice Captain of the Sixth. Where Brother goes, so too goes Rukia.

Brother's extension of the arm is quick but graceful. Without ado, he opens the letter, breaking the wax seal, and reads the contents of the message.

Brother is a hard soul to judge. The news could be good, catastrophic, or mundane. Rukia would be none the wiser. So, as any good sister would do, Rukia turns her attention to Hisana for a translation. Sister's throat tightens, and the lines of her face tighten.

Rukia bows her head, preparing for Brother's orders. On his word, she can be ready for the battle at a moment's notice. But, instead of issuing a command, Brother merely returns the letter to its envelope, and he hands the missive to his wife.

"Come, Abarai," Brother says rather sternly, turns, and moves to the door, not bothering to wait for Renji to respond in the affirmative.

Upon reaching the door, Brother acknowledges the cowering maid long enough to issue a biting order, "Ensure the Shihōin guards are posted outside the residence. Do not allow any soul entry to the halls where my family resides. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" she cries, voice threatening to break.

Brother then draws the door back and steps into the corridor. His reiatsu leaves a wintry chill in the air, but no one dares to move against it, afraid it may cut him or her.

Restraining the urge to bolt, Renji stands tall and rigid. Acknowledging Rukia and Hisana, he murmurs a soft, "Thank you," before hightailing it after Brother.

Rukia is  _floored_ , staring into the empty space that her sibling and friend once occupied.

_What just happened?_

Worry lines crease her brows, and her lips draw into a small compressed line.

 _I'm the Vice Captain of the Sixth!_  This observation foments a fine indignation.  _Why would he ask Renji to accompany him and not me?_

Before she can drum up some answers, the rustling of paper pulls her attention to Sister.

Hisana quietly plucks the letter from its envelope and reads the message, careful not to flinch at the words.

"What is it, Sister?" Rukia asks once Hisana's eyes stop roaming the page.

Hisana does not respond immediately. She is likely weighing and measuring her words. Rukia  _hates_  it when her sister takes to diplomacy when the situation requires expediency.  _Must be bad._   _But, how bad could it be?_  In an instant, Rukia's mind is conjuring unwanted demons and grave hypotheticals.

"The Second is conducting an inquisition. This is our notice to submit ourselves to their review."

"Or?" To Rukia's chagrin, this was the first question to leave her mouth, but it was not the the  _only_  or  _most pressing one_.  _Who? What? When? Where? Why did Brother…?_

Sister lifts her head, closes her eyes, and exhales a soft breath. "Or else."


End file.
